


Hard Crash

by DestineyTot



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Mental Health Issues, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Self-Destruction, Substance Abuse, Vriska is NOT vilified in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6797944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestineyTot/pseuds/DestineyTot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tender trail down a harrowing path of self-deprivation, and Dave finds himself lost among familiar faces. </p>
<p>'I'm wrong, inside and out. I care, but I don't care. I love him, but he doesn't love me. I don't deserve them, I don't. I don't.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard Crash

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU that sprung up after a few hours of listening to a plethora of Crazy Town songs, namely [Lollipop Porn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rn3RoIRVLZ8&index=1&list=FLJV2nW63Lrcs6RNQgtTQ0xQ). I was so inspired by the lyrics that it spawned this angst-fest. 
> 
> **Please** heed the tags for your own safety.

**== > Be Dave Strider**

You figure everyone’s got their ups and downs. Their points of lowdem that hit from time to time, the sluggish lack of desire to do anything productive. The pure nihilism that accompanies that deprivation. But they come out of it, right? Seasonal depression shit. Their dog died or something, but oh, they’ll be okay in a week or so. Bounce back, maybe go out to the local pub with their buddies and swing back a few drinks while a television drones on with its typical sports spiel.

Sometimes, when you make the mistake of letting yourself think too much, you wonder when that relief will happen to you. You’re waiting for the day when you can open your eyes from a sleep that isn’t substance-induced, sun shining and all that beautiful bullshit on your face, raise up from the bed and stretch your arms and think, “Man… I suddenly feel so much better.”

Because the best part of that whole ordeal is when you realize that you’re not sad anymore, right? You’re over it. It’s in the past. Time to move on and get some shit done. It’s a brand new day for a brand new you. The time to be sad is over, friend.

Today is not that day for you. You wake up to a stomach that is rolling with something unpleasant, a headache that is in no way or form natural, and skin that feels sticky to the touch, as if you’d been sweating all night. Which wasn’t far from the truth, in all honesty. The roulette wheel of substances that could have done this to you varies widely, and you faintly remember popping a few tablets last night before completely blacking out for the most part.

With eyes that are way too bleary for your liking, you chance a glance around yourself and find many others in the same situation. People of your age plus more strewn around the floor and furniture, sapped after a night of partying. Pipes littering the floor and various other illegal things haphazardly sitting out in the open, begging someone to take another hit. Right now, you can’t even fathom it.

You feel something warm and heavy settled against your side, and turn your head enough to see a half dressed girl wrapped around your right half. Her makeup is smeared horrendously, dark eyeshadow painting the area below her eyes black and red lipstick smeared to the right side of her cheek. Her hair, which looked to have been pulled into a ponytail, is hanging loosely by a hair bow that’s just about slide its way out of her hair.

Her neck is covered in bite marks and bruises, and her arms are wrapped around your midsection. You swallow thickly, the uncomfortable churning in your stomach becoming more and more apparent. With no ease offered in her direction, not that she’s anywhere near enough conscious to feel it, you push her dead weight body away and stumble to your feet.

The trek to the nearest bathroom consists mostly of you bumping into limbs and stubbing your toes on the walls, but you finally make it. When you do, there’s no time wasted in lifting the toilet lid and emptying the contents of your stomach into it. There’s not much, mostly a mesh of liquids that are probably alcohol for the most part. Your appetite tends to get snuffed out in the midst of whatever influence you’re under. Probably why your ribs are pressing awkwardly against your skin.

When most of the gunk is out of your system, you say goodbye to the bile by flushing the toilet and lowering the lid. At least you’re polite. The bathroom is a mess, much like the rest of the house. Ashtrays and abandoned or forgotten tubes of lipstick and lipgloss litter the sink counter. The mirror has smudges plastering its surface, and you’re pretty sure that’s a foot sticking out from behind the shower curtain. If there is someone passed out behind there, you doubt that your vomiting woke them up.

The grimace already tainting your lips deepens when you realize that you don’t have your shoes on. With the house in a disarray and your memory coming up blank, you doubt you’ll be finding them anytime soon. So you casually sneak out of the bathroom and scan a few unconscious individuals around you until you find someone who looks your size. They don’t stir as you pull off their shoes and stick them on your feet.

They’re Jordans, and not at all to your liking, but they fit snug enough and ensure that you won’t have to walk home with scuffed up feet.

If you left anything here, shoes aside, you don’t really care. All you know is that you want your own bed and bathroom, and the call of a shower is too great to resist. As far as the partygoers here, they’re the past and you could care less about anything that happened last night.

You shoot a glance to the girl who’d been passed out next to you. No remorse or longing there. Same old, empty feelings. You don’t care about her. She doesn’t care about you. That’s how this line of business tends to go.

The morning is wet and foggy, rain threatening to come at any second. You can taste it in the air, that misty sort of flavour that’s refreshing on your tongue. Like a long gulp of water after a trek in the desert. You realize that you’re terribly dehydrated, and think about the carton of apple juice in the fridge at home.

The apartment complex you live in is settled nearby, thankfully. Just as you walk under the canopy of its outdoor area, rain begins pelting the ground unforgivingly. A small showing of mercy, you think. There’s no elevator in the complex, the apartment only hosting 3 floors. Sometimes you wonder how the physically impaired live here, but then remember that the complex owner tends to reserve the bottom floors just for those individuals.

You always hated carrying groceries up those stairs when you were younger. Your older Bro always insisted on getting everything in one go, and it was a pain in your ass. Bro isn’t really around much anymore, so you can sometimes skip out. That is, when Dirk isn’t the one forcing you to help.

Shit, that’s right. Dirk. You hope he’s not awake.

As quietly as you can, you unlock the front door with your spare key, which is thankfully still on your person, and try to sneak through the living room to the kitchen. You let loose a held breath when you see that Dirk isn’t sitting there waiting for you. It’s a small victory celebrated prematurely though, because then he’s there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes tired as always.

For a moment, all you can think is that the middle brother of your family always looks so tired these days. Perpetual shadows underneath his tangerine eyes. You can’t remember the last time you saw him without them. Then again, you can’t remember a lot of things, lately.

You do remember that Dirk doesn’t like it when you go out, but you couldn’t care less. Dirk’s jaw is set tight, like he’s holding back an ocean of words, things that he wants to verbally sling in your direction. But then he just sighs, wearily, fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Where were you?”

You shrug nonchalantly, opting to walk right by him and open the fridge. The juice is still there, thankfully, though you don’t know why it wouldn’t be in the first place. Only you drink this stuff, whereas Dirk prefers his orange flavored drinks. If you had it your way, the fridge would be completely sparse, save for a few microwavable snacks. Dirk’s the only thing that keeps actual food in the house. Well, that and the annual check your Bro sends the two of you every month.

Of course, that moneys goes to Dirk. It can’t be trusted in your hands, apparently. Not with your “problems”.

“Dave,” Dirk starts again, voice a bit firmer this time. You take a generous drink from the carton of juice, swallowing greedily until the carton feels light and flimsy in your hands. “Dave, I’m serious. Where were you?”

The carton is tossed into the trash bin, and you wipe your mouth with a relieved sigh. Then, with crimson eyes that show more fatigue than what should be normal for someone of your age, you turn them on Dirk, your brow furrowing in annoyance. “We gotta do this every time now, huh?”

“Where were you?” The question remains posed. Dirk remains unmoved, arms still crossed in a way that makes you feel like he’s looking down on you.

You wave Dirk off with your hand, and try to walk past him instead. You’re too tired and hungover from your deadly cocktail last night to argue with him. Dirk doesn’t seem inclined to agree, however, and stops you dead in your tracks when he grabs you by the arm. Not a yank or anything vicious, but just a steel grip that refuses to let go. It makes your skin crawl nonetheless.

“Don’t ignore me.” His voice pitches down. A warning, you realize. Not a violent one, but that awful, parental one that he’s tried so hard to emulate in Bro’s absence. You hate that tone, hate the way it makes your insides clench up in self-loathing. It reinforces the fact that what you’re doing is fucked up, and you hate that it makes him worry. But at the same time, you just. Do. Not. Care.

“Last time I checked, you weren’t my parent or anything, so you know…” Your argument is weak, but it's all you can offer. You hope that if you push him away enough, he’ll leave you alone.

It doesn’t work. “I’m your guardian,” Dirk begins, authority lacing his voice. “And you’re underage. And I have a right to know why you’re out until 6 fucking AM in the morning. What were you doing, Dave?”

You scoff, and jerk your arm away from him. Dirk allows his hand to fall, weakly. _He looks so tired_. “You’ve only been my ‘legal guardian’ for 3 years. Not since Bro packed up and decided to fuck off. And I’m a fucking adult. I don’t have to share shit with you.”

“You’re seventeen, Dave. Seventeen years old and already pissing your life away. What was it this time? You know what, don’t answer that. I can smell half of it on your clothes.” Dirk is unforgiving in his observations, and it makes you bristle not because he’s accusing you, but because it’s true and you know it. You’re so see-through, and you hate it.

You think you’re such an impenetrable wall when really you’re just glass threatening to shatter. That is, if you haven’t cracked already.

“What I do on my own time is my business. So why don’t you fuck off and spend a few hours talking to your boyfriend while I get some shuteye and we call this quits, huh? I’m too tired to deal with this bullshit, anyway.” Despite the warning not to walk off, you do anyway, and pointedly ignore the way Dirk calls after you. However, you don’t hear his footfalls punctuating yours, so you assume that he’s given up.

_‘That’s okay’_ , you think. _‘I’ve given up too.’_

Swiftly, you duck into your room and lock the door. As you glance around, it’s exactly how you left it; in its usual disarray with clothes and CDs and every other little thing crowding it up. Old photos from years ago hang from lines draped lazily from one wall to the next, clipped on delicately with clothes pins. Their images are faded, almost forgotten, barely there memories of a better time.

You haven’t touched your camera in years.

It’s bad to dwell on those types of things though. So you do what you always do and push it to the back of your mind. Things to worry about later, only ‘later’ never really comes. Later consists of getting so fucked up that you can’t remember the latter half of the day. Whether it be breaking into the liquor cabinet, hitting up a confidante for some smoke, or popping back a few pills that you don’t bother to read the label for.

You life really is some shitty movie on the Lifetime channel. You sometimes wonder if they’d use your story for one of their plotlines. Only there’s no saving grace on your part. Another tragic teenage story of someone who didn’t love himself enough and didn’t feel loved. The thought makes your eyes prick uncomfortably. You shake it from your head and head into your bathroom.

The shower helps you clear your thoughts. You spend a while scrubbing the muck from your skin, poking and prodding too much at the bruises left on your neck and shoulders. You wish you could scrub those away.

By the time you’ve thrown on some acceptable sleeping clothes, you’re utterly exhausted, but you still make sure to perform your pre-sleep ritual. Lazily, you nudge the mouse of your computer, and hear the harddrive come to life as the computer screens lights up. The mouse hovers over Pesterchum, and it’s lit up with a notification.

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

EB: dave!  
EB: dude, i’ve gotta share something with you! you won’t believe this, i’m so psyched!  
EB: …  
EB: dave? helloooooooo, earth to dave? are you even there? :B  
EB: sheeeeeeeesh, fine. i’ll just tell you monday! and you better be there, too! i’m serious, mister, no more missing school for you. you’re falling behind. 

ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

Mark that as another missed conversation with John. You swallow past the lump in your throat that arises anytime the subject of him crops up in conjunction with your recent activity. John doesn’t know about you, but you think he has his suspicions. You see it in the way that he looks at you after a long weekend, like he knows that something isn’t quite right. Yet, he never says anything past, “Oh wow, you look really tired today!”

Sometimes you wish he would. Smack you in the face with reality, be upset with what you’re doing. Sit you down and try to convince you that there’s so much more to life than wasting away at parties and fucking random strangers. You wish he’d step into your life, be the one to finally fix you, uproot you from your bed of bullshit and set you back on track.

You wish your guts didn’t twist up when you think of how much you adore him. That awful, hollowing feeling that eats away at your diaphragm when you think of all the strangers you bed despite just how fucking much you love John Egbert. How John would look at you if he ever saw what you did. How disgusted he’d be with your life. John Egbert is destined for great things. You’re just a casualty waiting to happen.

You pine and you yearn, but you never relent. Mostly because you wouldn’t want to subject him to someone like you. Kind of because you doubt John swings your way, anyway. It’s a painful realization that never fails at making you want to curl up into a ball and sob. Like a drug you can’t get enough of, but take it out of your life, and you’re left sick as hell. So you stick by him when you can, and that’s enough. That’s what you try to tell yourself.

People aren’t supposed to guilt each other into relationships, and you’re not about that business. You hate pity parties as much as you hate Dirk’s overprotective tendencies. You won’t have John Egbert pity you.

Your mind is wandering dangerously into sentimental territory, so you immediately choke off whatever tangent it was about to go on and fling yourself into bed. The blackout curtains covering your window keep your room relatively dark, and you don’t bother with setting an alarm, even though it’s Sunday. You’ll show up to school Monday morning with bags under your eyes, but whatever. Hell of a weekend. Better than lying in bed and feeling sorry for yourself.

That, and whatever John was planning on telling you. You do manage a small smile at that, recalling how excited he was even through his deep blue text on the screen. You hope it’s good news.

* * *

**== > Actually go to school**

You hate this place.

Not because anyone makes it miserable for you, but because you make it miserable for yourself. You see all these different faces walking around, some you recognize from the parties you attend, others that are unfamiliar. You see people with futures much, much brighter than your own, and you envy them deeply.

You see people so utterly happy and content with themselves, and wonder what happened to make you the way you are. What was the catalyst that led you to this path? At exactly what point in your life did everything start spiraling downwards? You try to recall, but find that it happened gradually, slowly. Like a disease worsening over time without treatment. A plague eating away at you, consuming anything in its path to feed its bottomless pit.

That’s a good analogy for how you feel, to be honest. There’s something very tragically poetic about that.

You’ve taken up residence near the courtyard settled in the middle of the school. A pretty, little outdoor area for students to linger in during lunch periods and breaks. The rain from yesterday has dried for the most part, leaving most surfaces dry enough to sit on. You’re perched on a stone wall that lines a garden, your usual spot to meet John in.

He comes bounding up to you, a grin lighting up his face and a spring in his step. You can’t help but spare him a smirk, tilting down your shades to shoot him a sly look despite the shadows lining your eyes. “Well, well, well, Mr. Egbert, you look pretty fucking smug today. What’s got you so pumped?”

John plops down next to you, setting aside his bag that is no doubt filled with an array of textbooks. Unlike you, John is an overachiever and you’re sure every single one of his classes are advanced placement. He bites his bottom lip, as if trying to make you wait in suspense for a few seconds longer, but he bursts out laughing, a giddy smile punctuating the sound. “Okay, okay, so get this: you know how I thought that Vriska was sending me some looks, and I was like, ‘Woah what is she looking at me’, but then you were like, ‘Nah dude, don’t get your hopes up’? Weeeeeeeell…” John continues smiling in your direction, urging you to put two and two together.

Instead, your mouth has fallen open somewhat, your eyes going blank behind your shades as you register what he’s telling you. Your mouth feels full of cotton and you swallow dryly as you ask, despite knowing the answer. “Did, uh… She…”

John makes a noise of disbelief, and nudges your shoulder with his fist. “Oh, come on! Dave, she asked me out, and I totally said yes! Can you believe that? I’m so psyched, holy shit. This means I’m gonna have a date to prom this year and everything. Not to mention Vriska is, like, really, really pretty.”

John looks so thrilled, so utterly happy and excited for what the next few months might entail for him. But all you can really feel right now is something akin to betrayal, despite there being no basis for the emotion. Betrayal of what? Your secret, heavily one-sided feelings for him that he has absolutely no idea about?

A few seconds pass with no words from your mouth, and John’s expression falls somewhat. “Oh… Oh no, dude,” His hand comes up to his mouth, as if horrified by something, and your eyes go wide with alarm for a moment. “Don’t tell me that you had your eyes on Vriska, too? Oh man, no, I don’t want to be that kind of person!”

Despite how on edge your nerves were just a moment ago, disappoint floods you from head to toe. For a fleeting moment, you wonder why it’s a feeling you haven’t quite adjusted to you. You’d think after so long of doing nothing but disappointing yourself and others, you’d be all but numb to it.

You can’t just sit there and say nothing, however, lest you want to convince John that he really is a homewrecker. “No… Uh, no, I- I didn’t have my… eyes on her. You’re good. Green light means go.”

John pretends to wipe away a bead of sweat from his forehead, and the look of relief on his face is like a knife in your back. You feel like your insides are moving about in unsettling ways, your muscles itching to move, to do something, to carry you away from the source of pain afflicting you right now. You want to flee, to run into a bathroom stall and spend the next thirty minutes hyperventilating and choking out tears until you don’t feel like your chest is splitting open.

You stay put. “Thank Jegus. Listen, that’d been a mess, and you’re my best bro, and I don’t ever want something like that to come between us.” His words hurt in an ironic way, and you manage a broken laugh that barely passes as normal. “But hey, listen. Vriska has this friend who’s really pretty. Her name is Terezi, and the two of them are super close, so you know… Just throwing it out there, but double dates? That’d be pretty cool. I can talk to her about it, if you want?”

You shake your head numbly, focus drifting in and out, everything feeling muted and fuzzy. There’s rising panic in your chest, pressure mounting and building, eyes beginning to burn, nose getting hot. Your breaths turn laborious, hard. You feel like you can’t get enough air in your lungs. An anxiety attack, you’re having an anxiety attack.

You stand up and shake your head, the visage you’d tried to compose crumbling right in front of John and any onlookers. You press your hand against the brick wall in an attempt to steady yourself, feeling your legs trembling at the knees, threatening to let you collapse into a pitiful ball. You need to leave, get out of here, drown yourself in something before you start freaking the hell out.

“Dave? Dave…?” John stands up with you, hands reaching out to touch your arm. “Are you okay, dude? You went really pale there… Like, more pale than usual. Are you sick?” You shake your head silently again, but even that movement betrays your lie. “Dave, what’s wrong?”

You feel sick. Despite the lack of anything in your stomach right now, you feel like you could spill everything onto the ground. But you can’t fall apart in front of John. You can’t be selfish. You need to support him, like a good friend. Be a decent person for once in your fucking life. You chance a smile, before it crumbles almost a second later, and instead cover your mouth with your hand. “I’m fine,” You mumble through it, squeezing your eyes closed. “Think I have the stomach bug or something. You go on, I’ll drop by the nurse’s office. And… congrats. On the girlfriend thing.”

You move past John, trying to make an exit as fast as you can. John turns as you go, voice ingrained with heavy concern, “Do you want me to walk with you, at least?”

Instead of replying, you shoot him a thumbs down. You don’t trust your mouth to open and not and spew everything from your stomach.

The hallways of the school blend into a blur as you rush through them. Students shoot you strange looks, ranging from genuine concern to outright confusion, but you don’t have time to stop and placate each and every one of them. Not like you want to. Mostly, you just want to leave this godforsaken place, separate yourself from John and this pain, pluck the feelings you have for him out of your chest and stomp them into pieces. Detach yourself from the one thing that makes you feel good, but still somehow manages to hurt you. Truly a double-edged blade.

You probably deserve this, anyway. Life’s own personal brand of karma. This is what you get for being such a fucking shitlord. This is the universe balancing everything out. The bad cannot expect good to come to them. Everyone gets theirs, and every other saying that goes along with that spiel.

The nurse’s office was a lie, an out for you to take in the heat of the moment. Instead, you walk off campus, not even bothering to sign yourself out of the system, or let a single soul hear about your departure. You know that there’s Rose and Jade, but you don’t talk to them much these days, unless it’s with John. Which is especially poor, considering how one of them is your cousin.

Rose could take one look at you and pick apart everything that was wrong. You can’t handle being exposed like that. It’s too painful, too much.

You spend the rest of the day sitting in the park, perched at the top of the bench with your feet resting on the actual seat. Joggers and dog walkers arch their brows at you, but you pointedly ignore them. No one tries to sit down next to you, and you’re both thankful and miserable that they don’t try. You listen to music on your phone, earbuds drowning out any other noise, taking you away from the current moment and letting you calm down in a way only music can make you.

At one point, you think of calling up Roxy and asking her to get plastered with you, but even laid back Roxy wouldn’t let you touch a sip of alcohol and it’s a stupid idea. Plus, Rose would be home and they’d both gang up on you until you spilled your guts or gutted yourself.

When you think you might have to call up one of your dealers, you remember that you’ve got a half-full bottle of liquor stashed away in your closet, and resign yourself to that instead. It’s nothing terribly strong, but if you chug it fast enough, you’ll be out like a light. That’s all you really want right now, is to not think.

There’s no memory of the walk home, just a big blank where your mind decided to stop working. Static noise, empty space for an empty heart. You walk through the front door and the first thing you notice is that Dirk is asleep on the couch with Jake wedged between his body and the cushions. There’s a mixture of relief, envy, and bitterness there. Relief that he’s not awake to confront you, envy because at least he got the boy at the end of the day, and bitterness because those thoughts are so petty and you should be above that.

Who are you kidding, though. That’s too high of a pedestal for you. Just like John.

Once again, you lock your bedroom door so no one can disturb you. Instead of turning on the overhead lights, you flick the lamp on so that it’s casting a comfortable glow across the room. The closet door is cracked open when you approach it, and you worry that Dirk may have gone through your things. But when you open the door, everything is how you left it, and nothing has been moved. Including the bottle you’d been saving.

Fast-forward a few minutes, and you’re settled against your pillows with the bottle cradled between your legs and your television turned on to some evening comedy show. As time passes and little bits of the liquor slowly disappear from the bottle, the comedian’s faces begin to blur in your vision, and that comfortable blanket of drunkenness encompasses you.

Not too much later, and you’re tipping the bottle back, feeling the last drop hit your tongue with all its burning glory, though your tongue has mostly gone numb by this point and the sensation doesn’t bother you as much. You feel like you could slip into a deep sleep at any moment now, and the feeling is a welcome one, a reprieve of all the pain and hurt you’ve had to feel today.

With clumsy hands, you pull your phone out of your pocket with the intent to set it on your bedside table, but as you do, its screen lights up with a notification.

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

EB: dave?  
EB: you weren’t at school for the rest of the day…  
EB: and i checked the nurse’s office and you weren’t there either.  
EB: did you go home?  
EB: …  
EB: i hope you’re okay. i really care about you, you know.  
EB: message me when you’re feeling better. 

ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

You grip your phone tightly, hands shaking, chest vibrating with feelings and emotions you’d spent the latter half of the day carefully bottling up. For a moment, you’re so angry, so unbelievably furious that John could pretend that he cares so much. So fucking livid that he’d say such heartfelt and sweet words to you while you’re suffering on the other end on his behalf.

It feels like someone has snipped away one of the taut strings holding you together, and you let loose a muffled scream, tossing your phone across the room and watching as it smashes into your wall, leaving a small dent in it.

It’s not fair. Nothing is ever fair. Not for you.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally was planned to be a short story, but it never progressed past the first chapter. So this is officially a one-shot now.


End file.
